satishverma

PAIN KILLER

A city dies in me 
anacephalic. 
A white sheet spreads/ 
blinding. 

You don’t feel the epidural. 
Untitled, death walks/ 
like a whore/ 
contamination of inbreeding. 

Recycled pain 
hurts again. You want 
to give a stillbirth 
over the dense-packed nettle. 

First birthday of a dream.

Satish Verma